


mamihlapinatapei

by ImpOfPerversity



Series: Language Lessons [1]
Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-12
Updated: 2005-01-12
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity





	mamihlapinatapei

It was another cold night, cold and white and never quite growing dark, and the constant light -- not to mention the way that he must always, every moment, guard himself against the Southern climate; watch each step for invisible ice on the black wooden deck, watch the waves for that greater ninth that might drench him and leave him shivering for _days_ , no fire equal to warming him, watch the sky for any sudden storm swinging in to pelt them all with dry white flakes of sharp-edged snow -- made Jack Shaftoe tired and irritable, and he lay in the broad bunk in Jack Sparrow's cold cabin, all heaped with every heavy blanket, coverlet, quilt, sample of weaving or poorly-cured sealskin that Sparrow possessed: all pressed down upon Jack 'til he thought he'd be pressed flat as a pancake (but no, best not to think on food, especially hot greasy food: pancakes at the fair, with butter and cinnamon; frumenty laced with rum; spicy Spanish fish stew, the memory of which set Jack's mouth a-watering) and if he were to be press'd so, he'd as soon it was under the warm writhing weight of Jack Sparrow, who'd explained to him that morning -- or perhaps earlier tonight; the days and nights wove together into one long pale expanse -- that they'd be warmer naked together, skin to skin, close as they could get, which really (and Jack Shaftoe could not help but smile) was _remarkably_ close: so where was he now, eh, when Jack needed warming and was lying here all alone, hating the cold and the night and the South that there was so very much of, so much more than he'd ever realised as he'd followed the sticky path of Sparrow's pointing finger down the long featureless white coast of South America -- "well, Jack, and why _is_ it shaped to fit into this curve of Africk, eh?" -- towards that narrow, treacherous passage at the very bottom of the map: they must be near that Strait by now, and Jack wished heartily for the _Black Pearl_ to come safely through, and for their course to turn North again, towards sunlight and warmth and abundance and colour: there was nothing, nothing here: "Nothing?" said Jack Sparrow, having somehow entered the cabin without Jack's having noticed him -- perhaps he'd dozed, just for a moment -- as he muttered; "There are people living here, Jack, in that desolate waste of land off our starboard bow, and --"; "More fool them," said Jack sourly, "what manner of man'd choose to scrape out a living here? Sure, they're no more than savages;" "Not at all," Jack Sparrow said, stripping off the outermost layers of his cocoon (boots, oiled coat, villainous hat) and depositing himself on the bed, and on Jack, so that they were eye to eye; "they're int'resting folk, and resilient besides -- have to be tough, eh, scratching a living at the end of the world? -- and they talk the most fascinating language, Jack, they've words you never knew you needed 'til you have some fellow -- for there's Jesuits there, same as every other peopled place I've ever been -- expound them to you, I swear it;" "Oh, go on then," said Jack with a show of resignation, wriggling a little under the pleasantly comforting weight of his love, "since I'm sure you'll tell me anyway;" but Jack Sparrow did not speak a word, only tilted his head the better to gaze into Jack's eyes, warm and dark and full of life, and everything the South was not: full of _heat_ , too, and suggestion, and complicit lust, and companionable glee as at a shared jest, and ... and _Jack Sparrow_ , at his most maddening and desirable best, such a speaking look that Jack could not help but speak back in the same wordless language, and could not wait to get his chilled hands on Sparrow's ever-warm gilded skin, and his tongue -- but Sparrow was grinning, and murmuring something, some nonsensical fa-la-la such as a minstrel might substitute for the more _libidinous_ lines of a popular madrigal, in courtly company; "you _what_?" demanded Jack, extricating one arm from the snug constraint of their bed to pull Sparrow's mouth closer to his own; and Sparrow beamed at him, all gold and ivory in the crepuscular light, and said it again, " **mamihlapinatapei** , mate: what we were just doing, you and me;" "We weren't doing _anything_ ," said Jack, "not _yet_ , anyway, though from the way you were gawping at me I reckon I've a fair idea of what you _fancy_ we should be doing," and he couldn't help but leer up at Jack Sparrow, whose glorious hot mouth was breathing warm Sparrow-exhalations over Jack's itchily bearded face, who was saying -- and Jack forced himself to concentrate, else he'd never hear the end of it -- "Aye, and that's what **mamihlapinatapei** is, Jack my love; a meaningful look between two people, expressing unspoken feelings that are experienced --" here Jack Sparrow's hand, insinuating its way beneath the bed-strata, cupped Jack's nascent half-erection briefly and blissfully "-- by both, and each look implies a hope that the _other_ person involved in the look will, heh, get the ball rolling," (Jack made a strangled noise, and pushed his hand down under Sparrow's salt-stiff pea-jacket, hoping to find skin somewhere beneath all the wool and leather and quilting); "and start things off; and that's what we've been doing, Mr Shaftoe, without you ever knowing the word for it; now I've demonstrated it, though, I trust --" and Jack, smirking, said, "Oh no, Captain Sparrow, I'm not sure I _have_ it yet; mamilappywhat?" and nothing would do but that Jack Sparrow, caught between exasperation and amusement, must lesson that long word to him, syllable by syllable, though by the seventh and last of those ('pei') Sparrow's tongue was tasting the end of the word as Jack Shaftoe wrapped his tongue around it (and, inevitably and most enjoyably, around Jack Sparrow's own) and pronounced it so muffled and soft and tangle-tongued that not even Sparrow could hear it clear; but 'twas no matter, for he knew what word it was he'd taught his love, and knew besides that, word or no word, he and Jack Shaftoe had spoken as many volumes with speaking _looks_ as with pretty _speeches_ , and had spoken almost since the distant day they'd met of lust and licentiousness and longing, of Jack Shaftoe's abduction (ne'er discussed aloud, save in the most studiedly casual of asides), of Jack Sparrow's sudden, and not entirely sane, decision to forsake, if not exactly _all_ others then at least any lasting attachment with any other individual than Half-Cocked Jack Shaftoe, King of the Vagabonds, who learned so very fast and well, and yet who cast aside learning when it'd served its purpose; who even now was murmuring against Jack Sparrow's ear, "Jack, I swear if I don't have you naked 'gainst me soon, if you don't put your hands on me, if you don't put that pretty mouth to some less _educational_ use, I'll --" and Jack Sparrow does as he's bidden.

That's a real word! And it means what I said! I found it in [_They Have a Word for It_](http://www.amazon.co.uk/exec/obidos/ASIN/1889330469/), by Howard Rheingold. So never say that slash isn't educational ...  



End file.
